Meghan March
Beneath This Ink
(Beneath #2)
Release Date: February
12th, 2015
I’ve
always known she was too good for me, but that never stopped me from wanting
her.
And then
I finally had her for one night.
A night I
don’t remember.
I figured
I’d blown my shot.
But now
she’s walked back into my life, and this time, I have the upper hand. I want my
second chance.
“Con, can you take this walk-in?” Delilah called
from the front of the shop.
I pushed back from the desk and shoved my hair away
from my face. It was too damn long. I needed to get it cut, but the girl I’d
been going to for the last year had basically fallen onto my cock last week,
and I wasn’t going to be letting her near my jugular with scissors any time
soon. She wasn’t enamored of my, ‘I don’t go there twice unless there’s
something worth going back for’ mentality. I probably could have phrased it a
little nicer, but why give the girl false hope when I’d all but forgotten her
as soon as I’d slid the condom off my dick? I didn’t have time for bullshit,
and I didn’t like to be misunderstood when I spoke. So I was firmly in the
‘tell it how it is’ camp. Women didn’t seem to appreciate my particular brand
of honesty. Mostly because it didn’t line up with what they wanted to hear. Not
my problem.
I stood and headed for the door of the break room.
Time to meet my newest walk-in.
If I had to tattoo one more “YOLO” on some idiot
kid, I might hang up my tattoo gun and call it a day. Thoughts like that made
me feel older than thirty-one.
I scanned the shop, looking for my next client. If
I hadn’t learned a hell of a long time ago how to lock down my reactions, I
might’ve missed a step.
It was no kid.
And if she wanted YOLO tattooed on that body, it’d
be a crime against nature. Anger flared within me at the sight of her. I might
not remember the night we’d spent together, but I sure as hell remembered the
morning after when I’d interrupted her escape from my bedroom. We’d thrown
words like grenades, and it was a miracle we’d both walked away without
bloodshed. Even with that memory vividly replaying in my head, I still had to
tell my dick to calm the fuck down.
Vanessa Fucking Frost was still out of my league.
Hell, out of my fucking universe. She’d been too good for me in high school,
she’d been too good for me two years ago, and as sure as she was standing in my
shop today, she was still too damn good for me. And I bet she’d be the first
person to say it. I still couldn’t figure out how she’d ended up in my bed that
night. Not because my bed didn’t see action with rich chicks—it saw plenty—but
not like her. Classic elegance like Grace Kelly. Joy Leahy used to make me
watch To Catch a Thief with her, and that’s exactly who Vanessa reminded me of.
Her platinum blond hair was twisted up into some
fancy ass bun, and her tan skirt suit clung to her curves in all the right
places. One perfectly manicured hand toyed with the gold bracelet on her wrist.
My jeans tightened uncomfortably at the peek of a lacy pink bra from beneath
her pink silk blouse.
My reaction to her pissed me off.
Do you know what it’s like to finally get something
you’ve always wanted, but not remember a single fucking detail?
It ate away it me. The not knowing. Part of me
wanted to tell her to get the hell out of my shop, but the other part of me
wanted to drag her upstairs, strip her naked, and tie her to my bed so this
time she couldn’t leave until I was damn good and ready. Which might be never.
And that thought—that weakness—infuriated me.
“Never thought I’d see you darken my doorway again.
What can I do for you, princess?” A mocking edge colored my words.
Her nervous twirling of her bracelet halted, and
her blue eyes, several shades lighter and more vibrant than my own, met mine.
Her pink tongue darted out over her perfectly plump bottom lip slicked with
gloss. This nervous, off-balance look of hers raised all my red flags. I was
used to the quiet, sexy-as-all-hell confidence that had always drawn me in. At
least until she’d opened her mouth that infamous morning and told me what she’d
really thought of me.
“I need a few moments of your time.”
I raised an eyebrow. Now that was a new development.
She’d never sought me out.
“Is that so?”
“Yes, if you could spare me five minutes.”
Some of her words from that morning, which I might
as well have tattooed on my skin, came back to me: Do this again? Are you
crazy? I must have been insane to do this the first time. This can never happen
again. And no one can ever know. No one.
And now she wanted a favor?
“In this shop, the only way a woman gets my time is
if she’s getting a tattoo, or is on her knees or her back.” I knew my answer
was crude, but that was what she undoubtedly expected from me. And I hated to
disappoint.
A flush of color hit her cheekbones, and I wondered
for a brief second whether she was remembering what it had been like to be on
her knees in front of me. Fuck. I wish I remembered. Then I could just fucking
move on.
I waited for the clipped go to hell and an abrupt
exit. But instead of turning and walking out, she surprised me.
“A tattoo it is, then.”
About the Beneath Series
Beneath This Mask (Beneath #1)
He
loves me, and he doesn’t even know my real name.
The limelight that follows him could expose everything I’m hiding. But even knowing the risks, I can’t force myself to stay away.
I’m going to break his heart, but mine will shatter right along with it.
Will we lose it all when I reveal what’s beneath this mask?
The limelight that follows him could expose everything I’m hiding. But even knowing the risks, I can’t force myself to stay away.
I’m going to break his heart, but mine will shatter right along with it.
Will we lose it all when I reveal what’s beneath this mask?
Meghan March has been known to wear camo face
paint and tromp around in woods wearing mud-covered boots, all while sporting a
perfect manicure. She’s also impulsive, easily entertained, and absolutely
unapologetic about the fact that she loves to read and write smut. Her past
lives include slinging auto parts, selling lingerie, making custom jewelry, and
practicing corporate law. Writing books about dirty talking alpha males and the
strong, sassy women who bring them to their knees is by far the most fabulous
job she’s ever had.
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